


In Which Tavros is Literally a Mudblood

by sunshinestealer



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi, Potterstuck, Trolls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:59:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinestealer/pseuds/sunshinestealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Human/Potterstuck fic in a dark alternate universe of Harry Potter where the Dark Lord defeated Harry and the Ministry became overrun with Death Eaters. Wizards from Muggle families are being persecuted - or worse, killed - leading to some sympathetic pureblood families offering shelter. There are those, however, who aren’t so lucky.</p><p>Tavros is from one of these impure bloodlines. But what happens when Gamzee, a member of a Death Eater-allied family seeking his own glory, winds up falling for him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The house of Makara stood astride a cliff towards the southern English coast. Everything about the mansion suggested power — from the heavy iron gates to the imposing spires. Charms kept it hidden from the view of Muggles, but there were local legends about women and children disappearing, or becoming “addled in the head” after going near those cliffs.

 Not that it mattered to the patriarch of the household. A wizard who styled himself as The Grand Highblood. A rather arrogant title, really, considering there were some muggles in his family line, as well as some betrayers who might as well have been born as squibs.  

Still, he was an extremely old and powerful wizard, and he took pride in the upkeep of the Lord Voldemort’s work. Mudbloods had no place in the magical world. Muggles who married into wizarding families simply did not possess the capabilities to understand the magical culture that their partners had been raised in. Likewise, Muggle parents would not be able to understand a magical child.

Perhaps in days gone past, children born to Muggle parents would have been given a free ride. An education at Hogwarts, where their blood status would only be derided by the most adamantly insistent Slytherins. A kindly older wizard like Dumbledore would take them in, foster their abilities, and make certain that they were ingratiated into the Ministry or another job within the wizarding world. 

Not anymore, though.

Every now and again, the eldest Makara rejoiced in his memories of hunting down members of Dumbledore’s Army as a Snatcher. He had been young, and reckless, and it had been one of the best moments of his life. He thundered through the forests with the wind at his back, slaying runaway mudbloods left, right and centre. He also took part in the siege on the Ministry, and watched with some glee as Harry Potterhimself was struck down. The boy who lived? Not any more.

The Dark Lord had thanked the Highblood for his service by bestowing a title upon him, along with a Dark Mark to welcome him into the circle of the Death Eaters. Another one of his prizes was the enormously wealthy vault of a witch who had betrayed the cause. Not that the Makara line had ever been poor — but it was a welcome gift for the elder Makara’s services in helping install Lord Voldemort’s rule. 

The Highblood was far too old nowadays to take a wife. He did not mind, considering he had enough grandchildren and other members of the branch family. To keep the youngsters of the family away from bad influences, however, he insisted on giving tuition in certain magical principles. Moulding their minds so that they believed in the stories of the proud house they had been born into, the work of the Dark Lord that had kept disgusting mudblooded scum out of their community. 

It would break his (admittedly withered) heart if he were to hear of one of his grandchildren leaving the family, sympathetic to a rebellious cause. It also broke his heart to hear of squibs being born into the Makara line. They were almost always adopted out, of course. The Highblood himself had had to administer memory charms on his own children if they had become too attached to a child who was not fit for their grand purpose.

The Highblood was currently sat in his wood-panelled study, resting by the fire. He may have had an extended lifespan, but his bones still ached from time to time. A copy of The Daily Prophet lay on the coffee table before him, but he hadn’t been paying any attention to it.

With a large sigh, the Highblood rose from his chair and went to see if his protege was around to ease his boredom.

He was a tall, bestial man — there were times when he had even been compared to that loathsome werewolf Fenrir Greyback. Despite his best efforts, he had started to walk with a slight hunch to his back. Soon, he would be needing a cane. He would perhaps store his wand within it.

The Highblood shuffled down the halls, some house elves scattering in his wake every now and again. They would bleat niceties towards him to avoid being kicked, as was common in the Makara household.

He stomped off towards the inner courtyard, where his youngest grand nephew was most likely to be.

  

* * *

 

It was autumn, and it was Gamzee Makara’s first year after graduating Hogwarts. He had planned to just “chill” and maybe travel through Europe. As if one deserved a reward after finishing school, the Highblood had sneered. Gamzee ignored him. 

The trip to Europe had been accomplished during the summer months. It was never going to take the young Makara an entire year. The family tree, old as it was, even branched over onto the continent. Gamzee had even managed to meet his cousins who attended Durmstrang, and an aunt who now lived in Italy.

It made travelling very convenient — all one needed to do was write ahead, and then use a pinch of Floo powder. Gamzee would step out of the fireplace, his pale face partially caked in soot and introduce himself as a distant relation. A grin was usually enough to set their nerves at ease. He had a very, very strong resemblance to his forebear. 

Gamzee had grown tired of travelling after a few weeks, however. Some of his classmates at Hogwarts had signed up for internships with European dragon observation societies. Others had joined clubs to hunt down vampires. Gamzee was merely coasting along, assuming that he would have his plans for the future all figured out by the time he returned. 

When he returned, stumbling through the fireplace and bumping into his great uncle, Gamzee had given him a dopey smile and told him he was going to need some more time to decide what he wanted to do with his life.

The Highblood had shrugged, deliberately shoving Gamzee with his shoulder when he walked past imperiously. 

Now that the leaves on the trees had turned brown, the Highblood was growing impatient. Gamzee had done nothing but stay in his bedroom, promising he was practicing his charms and showing very little for it. The boy had a mind ill-suited for academia — he needed structure and constant reinforcement of his lessons. All of which were refreshers. He had been away from school for a mere four months and somehow struggled to recall the names of certain spells.

The elder of the family knew he would have his work cut out for him, especially with the loss of his former protege. Kurloz had shown promise, especially as a Legilimens, but ultimately, the boy had encountered a trauma that left him rather petrified, and a shadow of his former self. It was with a heavy heart that the Highblood let him leave the manor, never to return. The last he had heard, Gamzee’s cousin had become an apprentice to a bookbinder in Knockturn Alley. Perhaps the best place for him. Such a shame, though. 

Gamzee was indeed in the courtyard, slouching on the bench under the oak tree that was probably older than the family line itself. He watched in fascination as browned leaves floated down from their original roost, seemingly content to watch the world go by without him. That angered the older Makara. Anything would anger the old goat, Gamzee thought. 

In truth, there wasn’t any particular _need_ for Gamzee to stay in this cavernous house with his great uncle. It was just a family tradition that had stuck. He and Kurloz had been born several years apart, and no children had been born after them. If the Highblood had a chance at all this generation to form a grandchild’s mind into that of a Death Eater, it was with these two.

Hence why he had become so harsh towards Gamzee lately. House elves were no longer allowed to take his meals up to his bedroom, forcing them to spend mealtimes together. The Highblood would intercept his owl post from time to time. He _would_ have a proper heir to carry out his legacy. Everything he and the Makara family had worked for over generations would not be torn apart by a lazy, good-for-nothing like his youngest great nephew. 

Moulding Gamzee’s mind into the right shape was a frustrating process. For every two steps of progress the elder Makara made, there were always three or four steps backwards. Gamzee’s mind just didn’t grasp on to new concepts particularly well. His memory was rather pathetic, and the less said about his attention span, the better. How he had gotten decent grades on his OWLs and the handful of NEWTs he’d taken was a mystery for the ages.

The Highblood stood before his great nephew, folding his arms.

“Are you going to do something with your life, or am I going to have to kick you out of this damned house?”

Gamzee looked at him, shrugging. “I told you, I’d get my thoughts on what to do together by the end of the year.”

“That isn’t good enough. I’ve coddled you too much.” The Highblood said decisively. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call you a disgrace to our family name, but so far you have been nothing but a disappointment.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What I say _goes_.” The Highblood replied, a note of growing irritation in his voice. Those who knew him would have known to tread very carefully at this point. Not Gamzee. He just continued staring up at his great uncle, not sure what to say.  

“Merlin’s beard, boy, were you dropped on your head at birth?”

“Nah. Might wanna ask Mum about that, though. I don’t know myself.”

The Highblood’s fist clenched. What irritated him wasn’t Gamzee’s lackadaisical stupidity — it was more so his complete apathy towards what incredibly pure blood flowed through his veins. It was almost as if he didn’t care about pureblood supremacy _at all_.

Perhaps imprisoning him in the mansion wasn’t the right approach. If the boy happened to learn in a more practical way, the Highblood supposed, he could unlock the ferocious dark wizard within. He had seen that side to Gamzee before, in his demonstrations of the three ‘Unforgivable’ curses. His house elves unfortunate enough to have the Cruciatus curse inflicted on them had screamed and begged for mercy — and Gamzee’s eyes had lit up, his smile growing ever crueller until the elder Makara had forced him to stop. 

Good. He hadn’t been in the clutches of some mealy-mouthed professor at Hogwarts who whined about how _wrong_ it would be to inflict dark spells on those who deserved it. 

The Highblood took a seat beside him. His height and bulk, even while sitting, dwarfed his great nephew, who still seemed yet to grow into the lanky limbs that puberty had graced him with. “Did you ever hear of the Lost Boys?” 

Of course Gamzee had heard. Well, their existence was a mere rumour, but he had heard of them. Supposedly, a young group of halfbloods and other ‘impure’ witches and wizards had been gathered under the banner of an upstart wizard named Rufioh.

He had slipped through the system, born to Muggle parents and orphaned early in life. He had made it to adulthood under the guise of a Muggle, although he knew there was something markedly different about him. Muggles in the centre of London didn’t normally stare so much at a charmed carriage drawn by Thestrals. Nor did they try to pet and talk them, like a Care of Magical Creatures professor.

That was how Rufioh met the Marquise Serket. The Highblood had had dealings with her in the past, and yet she remained infuriatingly neutral on matters pertaining to the wizarding world. (But supposedly, both of her nieces were on the road to becoming excellent dark witches.) 

The Marquise, ever one to court controversy for the sake of it, had announced her engagement to the Daily Prophet. She had been sparing with the details, but rumour had it among the pureblood families that she had courted a mudblood out of spite for the established order.

The Lost Boys were a ragtag bunch of mudbloods who had survived to an age where their magical abilities were becoming difficult to oppress. Rufioh would fly towards the homes of these children, beckoning them away with promises of teaching them how to use their powers properly. Once he was taught how to, he would always administer a powerful memory charm on the parents of these children. Then he would take them away, their tears drying as they saw the wonderful new place they would be calling home, and honing their abilities in. 

The Ministry had no access to Hogwarts’ Book of Acceptance — it had snapped shut for good once the Dark Lord had risen to power. So, they had warned pureblooded wizards to keep an eye out for magical children in their own communities, so they could be properly registered. It was an inefficient system, but it was the only one the Ministry had.

The base camp was said to be in the grand forest surrounding the Marquise’s ancestral estate, but it was shielded under a particularly powerful barrier spell that would send people walking around in circles until they eventually were too exhausted to continue. Reports suggested one to two hundred children resided in this camp, with some defectors from pureblooded families taking up tenure as instructors there.

There was no proof, however, and the Marquise laughed it up with the tabloid presses as a mere fling, bringing up the relationship every now and again to tease her adoring public. An almost sneaky way of drumming up sales for the Prophet, sometimes even more so than the Quidditch World Cup issues. It was exhausting trying to keep up with her antics, especially as the woman was a known pathological liar.

“I’ve heard of ‘em, but I don’t know much about them.” Gamzee said, leaning back into the bench, to relieve some of the pressure from his tailbone. He thought about asking what precisely was so bad about this group — but he quickly dismissed it. That sort of questioning was unacceptable, if he had learned anything from his family. It might suggest you were a sympathiser yourself. He glanced at the Dark Mark on his great uncle’s inner arm.

“They’re a threat to the wizarding order,” the Highblood snapped. “Filthy mudbloods.”

“Yeah,” Gamzee agreed. “Filthy, stinking mudbloods.”

It was exhausting trying to act out this pantomime. Gamzee sensed that every time his uncle spat out a nasty epithet towards Muggleborns, he would look closely towards his nephew to make sure these sentiments would remain unchallenged. 

Gamzee hadn’t met any Muggleborns whilst at school, so he couldn’t say for certain if they were really that bad. In fact, the only person he knew who had scraped in by the skin of her teeth was Terezi, a loudmouthed Gryffindor who had more than a few drops of Muggle blood in her family line. It had been disgraceful enough for her mother to be kicked off her post in the Wizengamot once they Ministry found out, but Terezi had been born to a pureblooded father, and was thus allowed to attend Hogwarts. 

Still, deep in his heart, he didn’t quite agree with the persecution his great uncle and the entire Ministry were so insistent on. People were born the way they were, right? Everything in life was down to luck, as Vriska Serket had loudly proclaimed during one bout of debate in the Slytherin common room. You could be born a rich pureblood, like her dear rival - she motioned to Eridan Ampora, who sneered and turned back to his book - or just some pathetic mudblood. “It all depends on _one little throw of the dice,_ ” she asserted, before stepping back to give the floor to her opponent.

He smirked a little, momentarily lost in that memory, before composing himself. The Highblood had risen from his seat, hands clasped behind his back.  

“You’re only saying that because it is what I want to hear,” he snapped. “Do you know the expression ‘actions speak louder than words’, Gamzee?”

He nodded, before clearing his throat and speaking up. “Uh, yeah.”

“Well, then.” The Highblood turned, scorn burning in his amber eyes. “I want you to do something with your bloody life, so I’m kicking you _out_ of this house. You will be turned away if you try to come back. And don’t you dare go crying back to your mother. I’ll let her know her son is a goddamn good-for-nothing who does nothing but take more than he’s willing to give. Same goes for Auntie Whatshername in Italy.”

Gamzee’s eyes widened.

His uncle elaborated: “I will have your belongings sent ahead to The Leaky Cauldron. Find your cousin in Knockturn Alley.”

“But — how — ” Gamzee began, only to be cut off with a terrifying glare.

“I _don’t know_ ,” the Highblood spat, his teeth grinding. “Ask around, you imbecile.”

This was… really happening. Gamzee’s mind blearily tried to process it, and tried to formulate counter arguments, but he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the Highblood’s wrath. So, he shut down, sighed and plodded off towards his room.

“One more thing,” his uncle boomed.

“Yes?” 

“I want you to bring back a Muggleborn - preferably one of the Lost Boys, or even their leader, if you really want to impress - and use the Killing Curse on them. In front of me.”

Gamzee’s blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. Even so, he fought to keep his emotions from showing in his body language. He straightened his back, stopped his hands from trembling, and did his best to nod gravely. “I’ll do it.”

“Good. Because you aren't going to be welcome back here, or in wizarding society proper, until you do. Now, get out of my sight.”

 

* * *

  

Gamzee was followed back to his bedroom by a small group of house elves, who immediately set to work packing his trunk. He laughed quietly to himself. Almost like he was getting ready to head to King’s Cross Station for another school year all over again. 

He sat on his four poster bed and wrung his hands together, numbly watching the elves scurrying around to discard every trace of his presence from this room. The large Slytherin pennant. A few boxes of letters from his old friends. His clothing, pulled out of the wardrobe and carefully folded to be put at the bottom of his trunk. He had had little need for books after finishing his schooling, but Gamzee still enjoyed reading wizard mythology. He still had one history book from Eridan, who insisted he start reading some ‘actual, _real_ literature for a change.’

He swore aloud, his fist striking the mattress beside him. He had inherited the hot-blooded temper that the Makaras were famous for, but rarely showed it. He’d seen the terrified look on his mother’s face once when he tried to overturn the kitchen table a few years ago. Making people upset because you couldn’t process anger properly wasn’t fair.

But then again, nothing in life was, as his uncle would be quick to explain.

The elves looked up curiously, but immediately resumed their duties. They’d been hit around enough by their master over the years to keep a low profile when any of the family members got angry. Gamzee grabbed the arm of the one closest — and sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. Don’t tell my uncle anything about this. I’m just… I don’t know.”

The elf winced a little, large green eyes holding Gamzee’s gaze. From what he remembered, she was generally assigned to polish the brass and sweep the floors in the east wing of the house. What was her name… Mousey, perhaps?

“Poppy thinks the young master is very brave for going to a big city like London.” The elf commented, gesturing to Gamzee to let her go. His fingers unclasped, and she wriggled her delicate wrist out of his grip. “The Highblood only wants what is best for you.”

“Yeah, what’s best for me.” Gamzee said ruefully, turning around so he was facing the window. “Still. I get to see Kurloz again, I guess. And I can travel around the country looking for…” He didn’t comment any further, grabbing a cushion. He toyed with the tassels, watching the sky slowly darkening outside.  

He presumed he’d arrive in London by evening. They were only about an hour and a half away, after all.

The house elves quietly announced that they had finished packing for him. Gamzee rose to his feet, and levitated the trunk over the bannisters and into the main foyer, where another bunch of house elves prepared it for transportation. The thought occurred to him that he should be careful about using magic on his travels until he was in amongst wizarding communities. He didn’t want to tarry his reputation any further. 

Quickly, he scratched out a goodbye and thank you note to his great uncle on a scrap of parchment, instructing one of the head house elves to deliver it.

Floo Powder would have been useful here, but Gamzee could find no trace of it, and he wasn’t about to bother his uncle for it. He’d probably hidden it, challenging Gamzee to make it to London on a Muggle mode of transportation. Gamzee had similar luck looking for his broomstick, momentarily pissed when he discovered it had been locked away. He’d failed the exam for his Apparition licence. He wanted to get one up on his uncle, but his past self had decided to fluff every single question on the written and the practical test.

He could try… but then he recalled Vriska splinching her arm off. It just wasn’t worth the risk.

So, he informed the (human) housekeeper where he was headed — Southampton Train Station. At least, that was the nearest route into London, right? 

He didn’t expect it, but he was very grateful when Mrs. Darrow went on a rant, scoffing at him for thinking he could walk fifteen miles in an evening. He could walk a mere _three_ miles into the village and take the shuttle bus to Southampton, then buy a ticket into London. It’d take him a while, but he’d get to London one way or another.

She patted him on the arm, chuckling in her hoarse way. “I never learned how to Apparate either, lad. Had to start using Muggle transport, no matter how bloody inconvenient it is.”

Armed with this information, Gamzee finally set out of the front door of the house. He had to keep reminding himself to put one foot in front of the other. He was barely out of the driveway when he felt a pang of regret. Maybe if he went and apologised and told the Highblood he’d do better next time around…

No. Better to pass this challenge and actually be named as his uncle’s heir, rather than being a disgrace with no idea what to do with his life. The Highblood had provided the stick — now all Gamzee needed to do was to follow the carrot.


	2. Chapter 2

Gamzee arrived in London around eight o’clock that night. As luck would have it, the Muggle bus was delayed, and as much as he wanted the Knight Bus to swing around and pick him up, it never showed. So, he paid some Muggle currency to the driver and shuffled on to a bus to take him to the train station, then had to navigate over the platforms for the bi-hourly train to London. 

He hadn't seen Kurloz in a while, but then again, he didn’t even know _how_ to get to The Leaky Cauldron. Muggles wouldn’t know the exact location, so asking for directions was out. He vaguely recalled Charing Cross Road, and decided to head there. 

The train squealed into Waterloo some time later. Gamzee found somebody to give him directions to Charing Cross, and to his surprise, it was barely a few minutes’ walk away, past the Southbank and over the bridge.

His stomach rumbled. He’d get himself something to eat later.

After wandering around the street, he caught sight of a woman from the Ministry of Magic, who ushered him in through the entranceway of the pub. She bowed her head to him, as if he were Harry Potter or something — but, Gamzee realised, she must have noticed the silver family sigil pinned to his coat. The sigil of Capricorn, given to an ancestor of the Makara family for services in the field of Astronomy.

It was once a proud and respected sign, worn by the legions of academics that had headed the Makara family for generations. It was only in the past century that the patriarch was enough of a loose cannon to swear his allegiance to the Dark Arts, and strike fear into the hearts of witches and wizards everywhere. And nobody dared go up against him. Least of all his close family.

He drifted past the rabble inside of the pub, his stomach growling all the time. He was originally planning to simply make his way to the entrance to Diagon Alley, but now was a better time than any to plant himself down at an empty table and buy some dinner. Maybe get a room here as well. He wasn’t particularly hurting for money, but when he took the time to count out the sickles, galleons and knuts, he realised he only had enough for room and board for one night.

So, that meal was out. He got up, his chair clattering behind him, and cursed his luck.

* * *

 

Gamzee cut an imposing figure as he stalked through the late night shoppers in Diagon Alley. He’d taken the sigil off of his coat, but that hadn’t helped. The wild hair, the height, the bestial frame… Any British wizard worth their salt knew a member of the Makara family when they saw one. When Gamzee asked directions to Knockturn Alley, the witch who set him on the right path looked absolutely terrified.

Right now, Gamzee wished he had some way of contacting his uncle. He’d smugly announce that he’d _found_ his way to Knockturn Alley, _all by himself_ , and was going to gather a few followers before going on a Snatching raid. Muggles had those “mobile phones”, didn’t they?

Then he felt rather stupid. Why did he still seek his uncle’s approval so desperately? Then, with a chill, he realised — he’d spent so much time with the Death Eater that it seemed second nature to want to impress him. The same way Gamzee used to show off his drawings to his mother. (He hoped she was all right. She always was the worrying sort. 

Kurloz was supposedly somewhere around these parts. Apprenticed to a bookbinder’s, wasn’t he? A rather poor fate for a wizard of his calibre. But, Kurloz’s trauma had been enough to put him in a ward at St. Mungo’s. Then, when he recovered, he’d stopped talking altogether. Gamzee didn’t quite know all the gory details — but he strongly suspected his uncle had something to do with it, going by the cold reception Kurloz received on his last visit to the manor. Yet another reason to be petrified of the Highblood.

It would have been helpful if there was a map of some kind. Diagon Alley at least had some guidance posts. Knockturn Alley’s planners hadn’t been that considerate.

The alley was frightening enough for the inexperienced witch or wizard during the daytime, but in the dark, there seemed to be terrors around every corner. One wizard that stomped by Gamzee was nearly as tall as his uncle, and just as imposing. He had a strong odour and a pack of followers too, which was enough to assume that this man was a werewolf. Just about to go out on the hunt and snatch away magical youngsters. Gamzee suppressed a shiver, stepping back into the shadows to let them pass.

After roughly an hour of wandering around in the dark, Gamzee ducked into a small shop. Seemingly, it sold magical wares from around the world. There was a notice above the door that declared it to be APPOINTMENT ONLY, but he had ignored the sign in favour of just finding _somewhere_ to point him in the right direction.

The witch who shuffled down the stairs had a cane, and looked fit to try and beat Gamzee with it for interrupting her nighttime rituals.

Gamzee bit his lip before explaining his predicament. Well, not his _entire_ life story, and the recent events that had led to him wandering around Knockturn Alley after dusk. “Listen, you know all the businesses ‘round here?”

“Yes,” the witch replied. Her sympathy hadn’t quite been evoked yet, but Gamzee remembered the one trump he had up his sleeve in case she refused to help him. “I know all of them.”

“Okay, uh. You know of a book binder’s?”

“There’s three.” 

He nodded. “Alright, three. You know if they got apprentices, or…?”

“Merlin’s beard, boy! If you wanted an apprenticeship here after leaving school, you left it far too late!” 

“No,” Gamzee clarified, some frustration seeping into his tone. “Look, I’ve been searching for my cousin here. Tall. Thin. Hair like mine. Apprentice to a book binder.”

The witch tapped a long nail against her chin, before slipping back behind her counter. She pulled out a piece of parchment and her wand, a crude map appearing on the surface. “It’s not much, but it should get you there,” she said, pointing to the locations. “Or…” she said with a slight cackle, “You could use my fireplace. I’ve got Floo powder to spare.”

Gamzee grumbled something about her not saying so in the first place. 

* * *

 

The third time was the charm, as Gamzee sought to explain himself to two very stunned proprietors. One had been angered enough to try and kick him out.  

After one final explanation and apology, Gamzee stumbled out of a fireplace in a large, opulent seating area, where witches and wizards would have their futures divined for a small fee. There was a curtain over the doorway leading into it, and it automatically parted when Gamzee came near. 

He looked around the main floor of the shop, knowing full well not to mishandle any of the books that lined the shelves all around the walls. Some of the books were tiny, no bigger than one’s palm, while others comprised great, fat volumes that took up half a shelf. Gamzee couldn’t help but smile when he saw a vintage edition of _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , twitching in between two tightly-stuffed tomes.

Odd knick-knacks were strewn around the counter, and the dark magic emanating from them was positively palpable. The average witch or wizard would be severely discomfited by merely seeing them, but Gamzee had developed somewhat of an immunity.

“Kurloz?” Gamzee called out, after circling the shop twice. He knew his cousin was the silent type, even before the horrible accident that had rendered him mute. The sign over the door stated that the bookbinders was closed — and if that was the case, Gamzee would be waiting among the stacks until morning. The door leading to the stairs to the second floor was latched firmly shut. 

Nevertheless, Gamzee called out for his cousin again, this time, a little louder. There was a door left ajar, leading to the outside right at the back of the shop, leading to a small covered courtyard with a table and two cast iron chairs with intricate, loopy detailing. He saw there was a silver tea set left out on the table, so he went to bring it in, placing it on the counter. He didn’t want his cousin to get reprimanded for leaving it out.

There was a quiet noise as the door to the upper floors unlatched. Gamzee half expected the actual proprietor to emerge, shouting at him and accusing the young wizard of burglary. What did he expect? It was Knockturn Alley, after all.

The figure who emerged was thin as death itself, and perhaps just as tall. Kurloz Makara held out a Lumos spell on his wand, his dark eyes widening at the sight of Gamzee.

“Hey, cuz. Miss me?”

Kurloz’ lips curled up into a grin that almost reached his ears. Gamzee had been like a little brother to him while they were growing up at the Highblood’s mansion — which made it all the more painful that he had had to leave in such disgrace. 

He rushed to embrace his cousin, patting him on the back before giving him a rather quizzical look. Why would Gamzee come to Knockturn Alley late at night, without Uncle chaperoning him? He knew Gamzee had finished his education by now, but the Highblood was very, very particular with his heirs. He didn’t want them subjected to any outside influences that might make them sympathetic towards mudbloods or Muggles.

Clearly, something had gone wrong. Very, very wrong. 


	3. Chapter 3

Kurloz’s head shook as he recalled the events which had led to him leaving the family. Gamzee had never been fully informed, and he wasn’t going to ask his cousin when he appeared to be on the verge of some quite severe agitation.

He laid a hand on Kurloz’s wrist, bringing him out of those awful memories. Kurloz gave his cousin a puzzled look and then sighed.

Gamzee went to sit on one of the old leather armchairs that were positioned by the fireplace. Kurloz joined him, picking up the old silver tea set and refilling the boiling water in the samovar with his wand.

“It’s a long, long story,” Gamzee said, sensing Kurloz’s curiosity and laying back into the chair. Starting from the beginning, Gamzee made sure to include every little detail. Their uncle’s growing irritation with the only heir he would acknowledge, his obsession with making absolutely certain that Gamzee would practice the Dark Arts, and finally, the ultimatum he had issued. Come back with a Mudblood and kill them in front of him, or else lose your inheritance entirely.

Kurloz paled suddenly, his marble grey eyes widening. He stood, taking a few shaky paces and then had to grip onto a side table for support. Gamzee wondered briefly how the proprietor of this shop hadn’t been woken up, with al this ruckus downstairs.

Suddenly, Kurloz’s fist flew out towards the wall — but he managed to stop himself in time. Gamzee watched with concern as his cousin took a few deep breaths, before walking over to the counter and picking up a quill and a few pieces of parchment. He returned to his seat opposite Gamzee and began to write.

This had been Kurloz’s sole form of communication since the ‘incident.’ Although Quick Quote Quills existed for deaf and/or mute witches and wizards, Kurloz had not yet gotten one. He generally worked quicker this way, forming scratchy block capitals.

_FORGIVE MY OUTBURST JUST NOW._  

Gamzee shrugged, mumbling something about Kurloz needing to get it out of his system. He sipped at his tea, waiting as Kurloz scrawled out another sentence.

_I WAS REMINDED OF BAD MEMORIES._

“Uh, yeah. Kinda figured that,” Gamzee said in a hopefully jovial tone. The atmosphere in the room had become terribly grim all of a sudden.

Kurloz put down the parchment and quill, seizing Gamzee by the shoulders. The younger cousin blinked awkwardly, reaching around to pat him on the back.

“Could you… Show me?” Gamzee asked, quickly recalling Kurloz’s skill with Legilimency. His cousin had displayed an aptitude for it during his time at Hogwarts, and of course, their Uncle had taken notice of it.

Gamzee, on the other hand, hadn’t displayed any particular talent in wizardry. He had been a thoroughly average student during term time, but would apply himself with fervour during the exam periods. Kurloz had simply focused on his studies to do with the Dark Arts, keeping to himself in the library most days.

Whatever the Highblood had done to Kurloz, it had rendered him almost completely inconsolable whenever anything to do with the incident was brought up. It was quite a reversal of roles, with Gamzee now having to act as the big brother figure and comforter for Kurloz.

 

* * *

 

Gamzee had arrived at the Highblood’s manor for the first time when he was seven years old. It was only going to be for one summer, his mother had promised. He had quickly learned to be terrified of his hulking, monstrous uncle, who had merely grunted at the sight of his young nephew and barked for him to follow the house elves to unpack upstairs. Gamzee had seen hide nor hair of any other person in the mansion for several hours. In truth, he was too frightened of getting lost to even think of exploring.

However, eventually boredom took its hold. He decided to brave a few rooms on either side of the guest bedroom he was currently occupying. One led to a bland storage room with many paintings sheltered under drop-cloths. Another door led to a rather grim, disused guest room with an almost choking cloud of dust, leaving Gamzee wheezing and hacking as he stumbled back out into the hallway. 

One of the final rooms he tried turned out to be a reading room of some sort. Sour-faced portraits of the various Makara ancestors were dotted around the thick, wood-panelled walls, and the floor was covered by an enormous, exquisite Turkish rug. A magic carpet, in fact — its tassels flopped every now and again in agitation, desperate for some exercise. 

The lighting provided by the sconces on the walls was minimal, but most of the light in the room came from a warm, crackling fireplace. An armchair had its back turned to Gamzee, but it was clearly occupied. As he approached, a youthful voice rang out.

“Hello, Gamzee.”

He had nearly jumped out of his skin. How did this person, a complete stranger (albeit presumably family), know his name?

“Sorry to scare you. I know your name because Uncle mentioned you over breakfast. I have also met you before, although you wouldn’t remember, being a baby at the time.” He spoke so… eloquently. No stutters, no pauses, no fillers in his sentences. 

Kurloz got up to meet his cousin. The model heir to the Makara legacy was dressed to perfection. He wore a black tunic, decorated with looping patterns of silver thread up and down his thin sleeves. His boots were shined, and his hair was no longer the wild mess he usually sported. Gamzee didn’t know this at the time, but Kurloz had just been in one of the downstairs reception rooms, shaking hands with a number of Death Eaters. After too much social stimulation, Kurloz had retired to one of the upstairs reading rooms, with the promise that he would be down when the gong was sounded for dinner.

“Is that why Uncle, um…”

“Yes, Gamzee. That’s why our uncle left you to get acquainted to the house by yourself.” The young wizard looked like the epitome of respectability to Gamzee, whose mouth was hanging wide open.

Kurloz reached down and gripped his chin, closing it.

“Uncle is speaking with the grown-ups downstairs,” he explained. “You will have to be quiet during dinner time, and eat exactly what you are given. He is not above using jinxes or even hexes when faced with insubordinate children.” 

Gamzee nodded. He knew he was related to an enormous, prestigious family of witches and wizards, but this was his first time seeing the Makara clan up close. His mother had tried to keep him away from the Death Eaters in the family, for the most part. The Highblood had acquiesced, until he deemed Gamzee ‘ready.’

His mother was honour-bound to send an owl the moment Gamzee was caught experimenting with his abilities. Since he was homeschooled, it was far easier to pick up on, rather than waiting for the local primary school to report strange happenings around her son.  Hence the forced introduction to his uncle.

During the dinner, Gamzee sat right towards the end of the table. His sole company was an anonymous dark wizard, who snatched the plates off the serving elves. As well as his horrid manners, the wizard was definitely unpleasant to look at, and also sorely needed introducing to a bar of soap.

Opposite was a witch, perhaps a year or two older than Kurloz. She seemed to relish in glaring at Gamzee, sending him the nasty smile of a practiced bully. He sorely wished for his mother to be around — he could at least defer to her for what to do and what to talk about.

Gamzee sat awkwardly, taking very small bites of the food. He looked further up the table on his side. Kurloz was engaged in conversation with somebody three chairs down from the Highblood. He briefly thought of hopping down from his chair and getting Kurloz to swap chairs with the smelly older wizard, but probably decided his uncle would be against it.

The elder wizard’s face was like thunder. Gamzee would later learn that was simply his uncle’s default expression, a façade he constantly had to keep up for fear of usurpation. One didn’t get so close to the Dark Lord without making a _few_ enemies, after all.

“What was your name again?” The witch called over the table, snapping Gamzee out of his reverie. “Gimzy?”

“It’s Gamzee!” His voice came out in an indignant squeak.

“And you’re seven _and three quarters_ too, I bet.” She put on a particularly patronising tone of voice. “Can you actually _do_ magic?”

“Of course.” His cheeks flared red. He hadn’t been able to produce his abilities on command. His mother had simply walked in on him levitating objects in his bedroom, and changing the colour of his toy cars by touch alone. She simply smiled and told him he’d get better at magic with practice, before retreating to her study to write the same letter that had gotten Gamzee into this situation in the first place.

Her cat-like smile reached up to her ears. “Let’s see some, then.”

He stared down at his lap, minutely shaking his head.

“You heard me, Gamzee. Do some magic. Go on.” By now, their end of the table had become interested in the conversation and were craning their necks to see if the other Makara heir was a prodigy like Kurloz had been.

“Don’t pressure the boy,” the older man said, in a more jovial tone than Gamzee was expecting. “He’s not some damp squib. Wouldn’t even _be_ here if he was.”

The rest of the table nodded, and mercifully went back to their own conversations. Another course was brought in by the elves, who shrunk away from the slightest hint of contact. Quite unlike Toddy, the male house elf given to his mother as part of her dowry. Way before Gamzee’s father had left, of course. And then been reported dead somewhere in the Balkans.

After the dinner, Gamzee had been brought before his uncle for the first time in his life. Kurloz stood proudly beside the door, having earlier changed out of his robes for something more informal. He was currently wearing a black jumper with slacks, arms behind his back as he watched his cousin’s introduction.

“So, Gamzee. A fine name,” the Highblood had Gamzee sitting opposite him on one of the plush sofas across from the fireplace. “Terrible shame about your father.”

Gamzee shrugged, having not really been in the habit of paying attention — ever. “I, um, never knew him.”

“It’s a good thing your mother raised you correctly.” If only because there were regular ‘visits’ from the family, the constant presence maintained so that Cordelia wouldn’t get any funny ideas about leaving the life she had married into. “You know of your ancestry, yes?”

He nodded, eyes fixing on the enormous tapestry hanging on the wall directly behind the Highblood. Commissioned especially for the Makaras, it magically traced the family tree back hundreds of generations. A vanity statement as to the purity of their blood, of course — the names of squibs and those who married into Muggle or halfblooded families were immediately struck off. The connecting lines ebbed and flowed, with elaborate embroidery forming to display moving or static pictures of their family at each step in the tree.

“And you know why we don’t tolerate Mudbloods or Muggles?”

“Because we are superior,” Gamzee stated. Earlier, just prior to dinner, Kurloz had coached him on the things he might want to say to make sure he made a good first impression. “We, uh, have magic and they don’t.”

The Highblood rumbled, satisfied with the answer. “You know of the Wizarding Wars, boy? I was in them.”

He had heard of them, but Kurloz hadn’t gone over this. Immediately, he came unstuck. Kurloz blessedly mouthed a few words to him. “The Dark Lord triumphed.” Gamzee said.

“He did indeed. But not without the help of an army of dark wizards. Such as myself. And maybe one day, you’ll be a fine dark wizard.”

“Not maybe,” Gamzee said. “I will.”

“Good.” 

* * *

 

Several weeks had passed since Gamzee and Kurloz had come to know each other. With their uncle usually holed away in his study, they had the run of the mansion. Too afraid of the repercussions to try anything that would get them into deep trouble, Gamzee had taken to following his cousin around. Ever the responsible student, Kurloz busied himself with parchment and grimoires of dark magic, in preparation for starting his fifth year at Hogwarts.

This left Gamzee mostly alone in the cavernous library. Kurloz didn’t mind the company, so long as his little cousin stayed at a quiet enough volume. Gamzee tired quickly of the books; the language was too complex, and his intellect wasn’t quite as razor sharp as his cousin’s. It didn’t help that the words, as well as the pictures, often liked to move around the page, too fast to keep up with.

Gamzee would sometimes pretend that the marble flooring was a track for the small race cars he had been given as a present by his elderly auntie. They were charmed to speed around a room as if they actually _were_ racing each other. The cars would perform hairpin turns around table legs, and even let off multicoloured sparks from their wheels.

When he got bored of that game, he’d try looking at one of the many Bestiaries in their library’s collection. This required tugging on Kurloz’s sleeve, since the elder cousin was nearing six foot four. Once retrieved, Gamzee would watch vampires hissing, werewolves lunging for prey, along with the many magical creatures that made their homes elsewhere in the world.

Kurloz took a break from his studies every now and again, sitting on the floor opposite Gamzee. As if mandated by the Highblood himself, Kurloz would recite (in a rather bored manner) the history of the Wizarding Wars and why highblood purity was such a necessity in the magical world. More often than not, these lectures devolved into races with the toy cars. Sometimes Kurloz even helped his cousin with reading.

One of these days, however, Kurloz was uncharacteristically anxious. The Highblood’s heir usually maintained such a careful poise, desperate to seem respectable to ‘the people who mattered.’ Which usually meant Uncle.

This day, he made certain that Gamzee was at the opposite end of the room from him, citing an important essay he had to write under timed conditions. Secretly, he had formulated a cover story amongst the elves, promising treats and even freedom to a lucky few when he took charge, if they only stuck to his alibi.

The first few pebbles struck the window pane. Gamzee didn’t notice, lost as he was in a book on Wizarding cultures around the world. The text may have been too dense for him to absorb, but he enjoyed the pictures of witches and wizards visiting the opulent palaces of Tsarist Russia in this chapter.

Kurloz instantly got up and limbered gracefully over towards the sash windows. A girl stood in the trimmed gardens, a cheeky, feline smile upon her face. In a more romantic setting, Kurloz might have climbed down the trellis to greet her. All he could do for now was give a signal for her to stop throwing stones, and hurry on downstairs.

“If Uncle asks where I am,” he quickly said to Gamzee, “tell him that I’m just talking a break from studies, going on a walk. All right?”

Gamzee nodded, a little dumbstruck. Thankfully, he wasn’t visited by the Highblood (they almost never were), but he was curious as to what was keeping Kurloz. He didn’t arrive back for another hour or two. At one point or two, Gamzee even considered going down to the gardens himself, or bothering his uncle for Kurloz’s whereabouts.

He hadn’t seen the girl in the garden. But, Meulin was definitely _not_ marriage material for a Makara. She came from a proud tradition of village hedge-witches, fortune-tellers and matchmakers. Magical, certainly, but nowhere near pure enough to even consider courtship.

The Leijon family lived on the outskirts of the woods, and both Meulin and her little sister were educated in the local Muggle school. They were bullied by the other kids for their eclectic fashion sense, and odd mannerisms — Nepeta had a habit of lingering eye contact, and adopting odd speech patterns whenever it suited her.

The Death Eaters had of course paid visits over the years, to make absolutely certain that the last strains of magic in the family had died out. The children’s parents had clandestinely obtained forged documents to prove they were the children of squibs, and even travelled around the countryside to avoid detection. Both girls were of course, magical — but the family had made absolutely certain to remind them that if they ever exhibited it outside the home, they could be tortured or killed.

Meulin had stopped caring quite some time ago, though, and she had wandered straight into enemy territory when she met Kurloz several months ago. The boy had run away from some stinging argument with the Highblood. Meulin had found him, wandering around the village, and offered to bring him to her house for some tea.

Blissfully unaware that she had a Death Eater in-training at her kitchen table, Meulin had chatted to Kurloz and filled him in on the details of her life, inviting him to open up as well. She was as warm as the fire that danced in the cottage’s hearth, and Kurloz couldn’t help but want to hold hands with her as they walked back up the path to the cliffside mansion later on.

Ever since, they had enjoyed secret trysts. Somewhere along the line, it had become fairly evident that she _was_ a witch — and a damn good one at that.

“A wand? Why would I get a wand?” Meulin stretched out her fingers, magic lightly humming between her hands as she worked it around and around, a spectacle to see. Compared to the true mastery that was wandless magic, it seemed child-like and ungainly, the kind of display exhibited by a young witch or wizard not yet in full possession of their capabilities. He was still amazed, however.

Meulin could do a lot more _without_ a Hogwarts education, compared to what Kurloz had learned through hours of study at the school for witchcraft and wizardry. While she couldn’t list every ingredient for every potion and where to purchase them, she could forage in the woods for what she needed.

Following her first display, she rarely even _did_ magic, still fearful that it could be detected and the Death Eaters’ wrath brought down upon her family. They made potions together, read through texts, and discussed magic, their home lives, and even their aspirations for the future. Kurloz always carefully tip-toed around the subject of his legacy, however.

 

* * *

Muggles would quantify Kurloz’s reaction to Gamzee as symptoms of trauma. He didn’t speak any more, desperate to pay penance for something he had been _forced_ to do.

Meulin Leijon was no more.

The affair couldn’t have gone on any longer without more suspicion arising around Kurloz’s whereabouts. They had started to spend every ounce of free time together, even wondering aloud about finding somewhere to live for a little while once they turned eighteen.

He could never have seen it coming.

On Kurloz’s eighteenth birthday, the Highblood had presented Kurloz with a banquet, with a huge cadre of Death Eaters as guests. The pièce de résistance of the whole party? Meulin, her head stuffed into a sack, wrists tied and sobbing as the Highblood boomed about her inferior blood, how she had ‘seduced’ Kurloz out of his inheritance. Unless, of course, Kurloz took his uncle’s wand and used an Unforgivable on her.

Hands shaking as the crowd bayed for blood, Kurloz looked at Meulin, fighting desperately hard to hold back tears of rage and grief. 

His uncle, ever the showman, was shouting: “Will he use the Cruciatus Curse? Or maybe he’ll put the silly girl out of her misery right away with the Killing Curse.”

Kurloz shook his head vehemently, about to snap the wand over his knee. His wrist was suddenly encased in a bruising grip, and everything started to go blank. Or, at least, in some form of slow motion.

All Kurloz heard was a cruel voice casting _“Imperio”_ , and then two sets of screams merging into one horrifically loud noise. And then, silence.

And after that, packing up his belongings and leaving the only home he had ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know the title mentions Tavros by name and so far this has mostly been Gamzee... but I assure you, Tav is the most important character in this story and deserves


End file.
